


Salvation

by SingingtotheShadows



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, How Do I Tag, Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingtotheShadows/pseuds/SingingtotheShadows
Summary: She would have been my salvation, had I not made my choice long before she walked the earth.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fanfiction. . .ever, so please tell me what you think!

I look her in the eyes.

Eyes that hurt me every time, that look like imploding stars of sapphire and crystal and diamond. Eyes that remind me of the sky above my old home, of the light that would sometimes keep me from following Stryga down into the caverns where the mortals hid.

I smell my twin on her.

I smell myself on her.

Her scent twines with my own.

She is my salvation. My mate. I feel my immortal, cold heart rip, shred itself in two around the bond that ties me to this Fae. 

“Cyrvas,” she breathes, her gorgeous eyes welling with tears. In her soul, she is screaming, fighting against what I ask of her, sobbing with horror and aching sorrow, but only the tears in her eyes hint at the whirlwind inside. It nearly breaks me into pieces as well.

“Please,” I say, pushing her, _begging_ her, instead of soothing the storm inside her. 

I can’t protect her, not against Koschei or Stryga. Not against the inevitable march of time. Fitting that I would love someone who was to die lifetimes - millennia - before I even grew old. Fitting that I would break my oath to never love anyone, except my twin, for a female that was like a ripple in the sea of my existence. 

“ _Please,_ ” I plead again, not bearing to look at her - at her galaxies of blue and silver eyes, at her hair like sunlight on burnished copper, at the feline grace lining every limb. I can’t bear to glance at the Fae I fell in love with. 

I turn my gaze to the mountains looming over us, a silent audience to our heart-wrenching performance. She grows still, quiet, the bond stretching taut between us.

“Look at me,” she says softly. My dark gaze fixes on the gate of the Prison, the carved designs of the horrors awaiting beyond it burning into my memory. Her voice grows cold, stinging like hail as she barks, “ _Look at me!_ ”

Involuntarily, my eyes skip back over to her, and the tears lining her eyes, the heartbreak etched into her features. Her breath hitches as our gazes lock, as I murmur in a cold voice - not biting, for the emotion on her face would never let me hurt her - “You have no future with me. I am a curse to you, and I refuse to break my oath.”

“But I _love_ you!” she cries, throwing her hands out and striding towards me. I stand frozen as she gently grabs my face in her hands, my cold skin stinging as the warmth of her touch bites me. “I _love_ you,” she whispers again.

“Don’t you understand?” I murmur back. “I am a curse.”

“Then it is a curse I shall bear for the rest of my life,” she replies, sending the same words - the same emotions - down the bond. 

“I will not do this to you,” she continues, gesturing at the Prison behind us. “I will not force you into darkness for eternity. Even if it requires breaking myself, I will do it. I will not hurt you.”

“Yes, you will,” I reply, and her fingers clench on my face. Her eyes are near-level with mine. 

She leans forward, and her kiss tastes like coming home. Her determination resonates across the bond. She refuses to do it. She refuses to sentence me to the Prison for eternity. 

And there is this aching in my heart, a black stain held together by a golden bond. By my mate. By _her._

By Fayre.

I close my eyes. 

I kiss her back gently, but I’m slipping inside her head. I gently, oh so gently, start to erase myself from her life. The mating bond, the instincts that drove her to seek me out after imprisoning Stryga wail and fight against me, as does my own heart, but I am stronger.

I am, after all, a god.

I wipe myself from her life. 

The mating bond _snaps_ with such a wretched twist, it feels like a knife to the heart. Only, a knife would be welcome against this pain. 

I retreat, both physically and mentally.

She blinks for a second. Then, the final wish I asked of her registers.

She binds me to the Prison. As she winnows away, I smile sadly. 

Centuries, millennia, lifetimes of immortals later, I feel a pair of broken souls enter. I feel the female’s first: hers, however shattered, is burning, blazing with the same spark that was inside Fayre. 

For a heartbeat, I _think . . ._

Then I shake the thought off, ignoring the deep-seated aching in my heart, where the blackened, tattered remains of a mating bond are still wound. 

When they enter my cell, I feel myself morph: to her, I am their child, unconsciously something she both dreads and longs for. To him, I am a friend turned enemy, broken by insanity and pain. 

I almost flinch when her eyes meet mine. It is painful to look at the female.

She has _her_ eyes, _her_ hair, _her_ voice. She shares _her_ blood. 

“Feyre,” I say, the name of my mate heavy on my lips. “Fay-ruh.”

I feel my heart break even more. 

When this female, this High Lady, comes to beg for my help against Hybern, she is so much like Fayre it hurts. She recognizes my form this time, and it both scares her and gives her hope.

Her general sees something else, but he sees the ache in my eyes as I look at my mate’s ancestor. I wipe it from his mind.

When Feyre becomes the Mistress of the Mirror, I know the blood of my mate runs true in this female. I agree to help her, to fight for her, alongside her.

I would be willing to die for her.

But first, I carve the last two deaths I ever will: my own, and _hers_. Of the Cauldron, and the bliss that comes with it. Of the mending of my heart in those death-waters, the ichor of my blood flowing backwards through my veins to the tattered remains of my heart, held together still by that tarnished bond. It makes me smile, knowing that my end is near. The endless march of my existence is about to halt. 

Carving Fayre’s death . . . hurts, in a way that mends me rather than tears me apart. It is of her as a mortal, staring into the darkness of death with a faint smile. She remembered me, in those final moments. I recall the faint pulse of happiness, relief, and _love_ that flowed through me, before it fell silent forever.

I stand, turning to the Ouroboros, which stands in the corner of my cell. I gaze at my reflection, my _true_ reflection, the same one I saw whenever Stryga first showed the mirror to me. 

I smile at the pale boy standing there. At the short black hair, the uptilted, ebony-dark eyes, sharply protruding bones, at the pale, pale skin colder than death. 

I smile, because this was how she saw me. How she will see me when I pass. 

I will die for Feyre today, because she carries the spark of my mate in her soul. 

I look out across that battlefield with nothing but quiet joy. 

I do not flinch from Stryga, who grins at me with sharpened teeth, her face once again youthful.

I do not flinch from Bryaxis, standing like a wraith in the shadows beside me. 

I lose myself in the joy of the battle, of taking these lives and releasing my power one last time. 

And when my end is nigh, I turn to Feyre and give her one last, knowing smile. 

Then the light envelopes me, and the heat and pain and utter destruction fade as I hear her mental scream of grief, of horror. For someone who does not know me, she screams like my death is of a loved one.

Maybe some hidden, forgotten part of her that is purely Fayre thinks that too. 

I am still smiling as I pull back the veil, stepping into the half-light, and gaze around at the misty plain I find myself. Rising in the distance is the Prison. Lapping at the cliffs far below is the gray, stormy sea. 

“Hello, Cyrvas,” she says softly.

I turn, and Fayre stands there, wearing a dress of darkest night and brightest light, ebony and ivory, her bronze hair piled on her head, her silver-blue eyes twinkling like stars.

“Hello, Fayre,” I reply. 

“What was it like?” she asks, and I know she means death. I smile, shrug, and say, “Like living.”

She laughs lowly, the sound sending shivers up and down my spine, before she steps forward. She shifts, into dark leathers, her hair tumbling down into a plait, twin swords strapping across her back. “I missed you,” she whispers, reaching for me and placing her hands on my cheeks. This time, the warmth of her fingers don’t burn my skin, and my cold does not bite hers. 

“You don’t have to miss me anymore,” I tell her, with a half smile.

“I suppose I don’t.” Her eyes are near-level with mine.

She leans forward, and her kiss tastes like coming home. Tears run down her cheeks, and I brush them off with my thumbs, feeling her lips curve into a contented smile.

I look into her eyes.


End file.
